Fantasies of the Caribbean
by KeatsLove
Summary: 16 year old Elizabeth writes a letter to her dead mother detailing her recent fantasies about Will Turner in hopes that getting the words out will sort out her feelings for everyone's favorite Blacksmith in training.


Fantasies of the Caribbean

My dearest Mama,

Since you are dead, you cannot possibly chide me for such an active and, perhaps, inappropriate brain. Sometimes I fear if I do not put pen to parchment and "quiet my teeming mind", I shall quite likely act out on these urges that have consumed me. Perhaps "consumed" is the wrong choice and even "urges." Let us instead say "I shall quite likely act out on these fantasies that occupy me." Better.

At times likes these, I really, truly wish you were in my room instead of in the ground so we can talk proper. It is very hard growing to a woman without the aide of a mother to help along the way. Papa is splendid, but Papa is Papa and does not understand about the matters that trouble me of late. I have seen Will Turner shirtless. I quite literally doubt I shall be the same again.

If you were here, I imagine you laughing, Mama, and saying "Dearest, Bess! Boys are no trouble at all!" But they ARE, Mama! They are! Especially ones who have been my constant playmate since childhood. How can I explain to him (no, never him – never him) or you what goes through my mind when I see him or, of late, even THINK of seeing him? Let me demonstrate. . . .

Instance the first: I imagine Will in the bath. I imagine him sitting in the water, rubbing a cloth over his tanned skin, water running in rivulets down his back, and scrubbing his hair because it smells like soot and smoke. That is one of the things I secretly very much enjoy about Will Turner – his smell. If he smelled like lilacs and rose water he would be just like every other proper young dandy Papa parades in front of me. I do not want him to be like every one else. I want him to be like him. Sometimes, I insert myself into the daydream, imagining myself helping to scrub his back and the nooks and crannies he cannot reach. Sometimes, he pulls me into the tub with him and the fit is so tight I am forced to scrunch up against him, laughing, palms flat against his chest, and splash water up into his face. We wrestle some. Do you remember when we used to wrestle as children? But this is a different sort of wrestling. A sort of well choreographed game which is odd since Will is hopeless with dancing and usually with walking as well. I cannot count the sundry number of times he has tripped into a bucket or on a stair or even over his two feet. But, he is a very good wrestler. At least in my mind.

Instance the second:  I imagine myself kidnapped by pirates and Will rushing to rescue me. Usually in my daydream, I am tied up to a mast or nearly forced to walk the plank and, in swings Will on some rope that no one noticed before, sword in hand, and he challenges the Pirate King to a duel. I am unsure if he would ACTUALLY be any good at sword fighting considering the poor job he usually does staying on his feet, but in my mind he is glorious. He smartly defeats the Pirate King, cuts the bonds that hold me to the mast or have my hands tied behind my back if it is an instance of me walking the plank, takes me in his arms because I swoon at his bravery, and revives me with a kiss. I do not put words in his mouth because I am unsure what Will would say right before kissing me or if he would even speak at all. I believe he is the silent type in a situation such as that. At any rate, in my mind he is. I do not know from personal experience because he has never needed to rescue me from pirates.

Instance the third:  I imagine Will and I bathing in the sea and I begin to drown and he valiantly saves me, cradling me close to his bare chest as he carries me to shore. This is partly based in truth. The bathing part, not the drowning part. Do not think me very tarty, Mama, for frolicking around in just my chemise in front of a shirtless Will Turner because, until of late, I did not entertain any fantasies about him. Now, all I think of is water and his bare chest. Especially his chest. Goodness, Mama, perhaps I am acting tarty since I now am forever endeavoring to catch him without his shirt on. I haunt the shop at odd hours hoping for a glimpse. Sadly, my efforts have gone unrewarded. In my daydream, though, I can be pressed up to that glorious chest and imagine what it would be like to be carried to shore, laid down in the cool, wet sand since he is always too distraught over my safety to take me to the cool, dry stuff, and be revived since I have, again, swooned at my near death experience. Perhaps I just enjoy inventing reasons for Will to kiss me. He revives me quite frequently in my mind.

Oh, Mama, if you were here you would say "Bess, you silly girl, if you so enjoy the company of Young Master Will Turner, tell him so!" but Mama how? He must know I enjoy his company or I would not show my face at his door with such frequency. Of late, I am unsure if I enjoy his company in the way you and Papa enjoyed each other's company and that works my poor mind up even more. It sets off images of, not just pirate rescues, bathing and near drowning, but matrimony as well. What a silly notion for me to entertain – marriage to Will Turner – but, truth be told, Mama, at night I whisper "Elizabeth Turner" in my bed just to see how the words sound together. I rather like it so, by default, I suppose that means I rather like him as well. Oh, Mama, how I wish you were alive so you could give me sound advice! I miss having a mother. Perhaps instead of thinking so often of Will Turner, I should imagine you and I in a garden on a warm summer's day, and you can smile and nod and give me advice about the matter at hand. Alas, knowing my active mind, I would probably invent a bee sting and allergic reaction and Will magically appearing to revive me from a swoon. Oh, Mama, I am a very silly girl. Don't deny it just because you gave me life. I am silly. When, if, and how I shall ever tell Will of these imagining is a mystery to me. I worry he shall laugh it off. Then again, perhaps he shall laugh but only because he has had the same sort of imagining pertaining to me. How very silly Will and I shall feel, Mama, if in the days, weeks, months, or even years ahead, we discover that we have both had these same thoughts and feelings and did nothing to bring them to actualization. I, for one, shall be quite put out if I missed years of being revived from a swoon by Will on account of us both feeling awkward. Perhaps I should march on down to the Shop and say very forcefully: "Now, see here, Will Turner. We are not children anymore. We are sixteen and I do not know when or how or why it happened but I believe I am falling in love with you." Oh, Mama, I would probably blush and run away if I ever said such things! I am not brave. I am silly and foolish and, I know now, a coward when it comes to speaking the truth to Will. Sadly, Mama, I believe that that is yet another fantasy to add to the list. Perhaps I shall find a way to make it a reality, but I fear I lack the courage.

Loan me your strength, Mama. Perhaps then I shall speak my mind.

Your ever affectionate daughter,

_Elizabeth_


End file.
